


Mad World

by yulin



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2017-02-25
Packaged: 2018-09-26 22:19:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9924404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yulin/pseuds/yulin
Summary: “You are not ok, Cristiano,” Ramos said.In fact, he was not ok.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LynyrdSkynyrd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LynyrdSkynyrd/gifts).
  * Inspired by [When True Colors Bleed](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3261827) by [LynyrdSkynyrd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LynyrdSkynyrd/pseuds/LynyrdSkynyrd). 



> This fic is a totally unbecoming sequel to the wonderful Moriría por vos series of LynyrdSkynyrd. If you haven't done yet, go and read it. (And be prepared to suffer).  
> Hey Belen! I tried to contact you in any way! This is the most eye-catching way that I had in my mind to capture your attention. Please just let me know that you are ok, right :)? I do care about you!
> 
> The title and the quote are from "Mad World" by Tears for Fears. (In my head, thought, it sounds as the Andrews and Jules version). Written for the cow-t. Prompt: angst.

**_“And I find it kinda funny, I find it kinda sad  
The dreams in which I'm dying are the best I've ever had”_ **

 

When it starts to rain in Porto you can only sit down and wait for it to stop. For months. The beautiful cobblestone pavements are too slippery to walk. The thin rain hits you from all directions, making umbrellas completely useless. The sea is grey, the sky is grey, the land is grey. The best thing to do is sit and wait.

That’s what Cristiano is doing. Sitting at the wooden bar of a small pub close to the port. It is a nice place: small, with pale blue and white walls decorated with complex knots. It still has a nautical environment, but is actually clean, decent, and typically frequented by the middle-class. It is only late afternoon, though, and a little too early for the people to go to a pub. In fact, only a couple of old drunkards are there with Cristiano. Everyone is just minding their own business. 

Indeed, Cristiano has nothing for which to wait.

 

It was just unfortunate that it had happened at the Bernabeu. That’s what Cristiano thought, at the beginning at least. That the problem was that particular spot in the field, where everything had happened. Cristiano knew exactly where it was: he could never forget it. And what was worse was that he could never ignore it. The perspective from that point should have been as familiar as from any other spot in the Bernabeu, really. Seeing the world from that particular spot shouldn’t ever seem new.

Still, every time Cristiano was near there, every time he saw the bleachers—even when they were empty during training sessions—Cristiano saw the world from that spot in a completely different light. He saw the shocked faces of thousands of strangers, silent, like they had never been in a stadium before. Every time he looked at the pitch he saw a big, yellow number 3 in front of him. The tall body of Pique rising up in front of him like a protective wall. He saw a small body, curved in pain. 

Cristiano felt sick.

If nothing else, though, Cristiano was stubborn. Especially when his professionalism was on the table. So, he ignored the bother, focused his mind and fled with the ball at his feet.

And still, something was happening to his brain, because he unconsciously kept avoiding that particular zone of the field, and it didn’t take long for the opponents to notice that and take advantage of it. As said, it was really unfortunate that it happened at Bernabeu, where half of his matches were played.

He had support from his fans, his teammates, the coaches and the board. It’s just a very understandable phase, they said. Eventually, he would move on, they said. 

I will move on, Cristiano told himself.

In fact, he moved on. But he moved on in the wrong direction.

Soon after, Cristiano felt sick at the sight of those particular bleachers, and all of those anonymous faces looking at him were suddenly unbearable. It didn’t matter. All he had to do was fix his eyes on the opponents’ goal, feel the ball at his feet, and run, faster than anybody.

That feeling that had always been the most comforting of his life, was now annoying, too. Even the thudding of the leather on his boots was vexing to Cristiano’s nerves.

It didn’t matter: his free kicks had more power, boosted with rage and frustration.

But one day, Cristiano felt sick even at the sight of his own home. It was a beautiful, sunny spring day. One of the first warm days after winter, and Cristiano took the occasion to play with his dog in the garden. He was using a Frisbee, of course. Cristiano didn’t even want to see a ball if it wasn’t strictly necessary during that time. 

The grass in his garden was soft and bright green, with the typical smell that indicated it had been recently cut. 

_As it is on the pitch._

One moment, Cristiano was shouting congratulations to Marosca for managing to grab the Frisbee on the fly, the next moment after that Cristiano’s nostrils were overwhelmed with the smell, and the world started to spin around him. Cristiano fell on his knees, suddenly trembling with cold sweat. When Marosca reached him, barking in worry, he was already vomiting.

A disgusting mess on a beautiful, green grass field. What a beautiful metaphor for his life, Cristiano thought. And then he laughed at the absurdity of him becoming poetical all of a sudden. Indeed, his life was a mess if he was unintentionally finding philosophical meanings in some mess of puke.

He laughed so much at the idea that he fell on his back, facing the sky. Marosca was there, and she lapped away the tears from his face. 

 

The little bar is filling up now, as the people are finishing up their working hours. It’s still raining, of course, and it will probably continue to rain for the entire evening. There is no reason for the people to stay outside, wandering around in the beautiful streets, or sit on the beach. Better to drink something inside with some friends.

But Cristiano is alone, and he wishes he could stay that way. All these people chatting behind him are too unnerving. The voices of people, the voices of the crowd, all the laughter… everything is unbearable. Cristiano just wishes he could hit all of them, somehow silencing them completely. If only he could beat someone without seeing blood!

He chuckles at himself at the absurdity of such a wish.

“Are you ok, there?” The bartender asks with a baritone voice. He looks to be a man in his fifties, with blond hair and very dark eyes, with an echo of handsomeness in his features. He has dimples, Cristiano notices, for some reason feeling a knot in his stomach.

“Another,” he simply orders, pointing at his glass. Better to drown his frustrations rather than beat customers.

But the bartender looks hesitant. “Are you sure? You’ve already had a lot, big man.”

“I pay, I decide,” Cristiano says, leaving the notes on the bar.

“I own the local, _I_ decide.”

Cristiano sighs in frustration. Seriously, if it weren’t for the inevitable blood…

“I pay more, I convince you,” he mutters, and he adds some more notes.

The bartender looks at Cristiano a few times, and then at the notes a couple of times, before releasing a dramatic sigh. He takes the bottles of coke and rum and pours both of them simultaneously in the glass, being careful to sneakily drop less rum in than is necessary.

Satisfied, Cristiano can drink his drink.

 

It might have been true that Cristiano’s free kick could have been even more powerful, but he was losing lucidity during his actions. People were starting to murmur, but Cristiano didn’t care. He was convinced that everything would pass, and he would prove them wrong in order to grow stronger and stronger.

Until one day he fainted on the pitch. 

It was an important match. It was against Sevilla, at the Bernabeu. Sevilla was tough, and the result at the 70’ the game was still stuck at 0-0. The public wasn’t happy. The Galacticos’ supporters were used to having better, and always demanded more and more.

_They demanded a blood tribute_

It happened as it had at his home: one moment everything was perfectly normal. Cristiano was still, trying to be not too unnerved by the crowd’s noise and was focusing on the game. He noticed an opening: Modric managed to pass-by the defence in the advanced midfield, so Cristiano decided to try and accelerate towards the goal.

After three paces, everything went dark.

When he woke up the world was spinning. He saw the blue sky, decorated by round, fluffy clouds. They were moving unnaturally though. Right, left, right… Cristiano suddenly noticed that he was laying on his back on a rough surface, not the soft grass. He heard the voices. That horrible murmuring from the crowd was still there, but over that he could hear a “Move, move, move! Quick!”

He realised that he was on a gurney, and immediately struggled. He didn’t need a gurney. Gurneys were for really sick people, people in danger, and he had no right to claim a gurney for a little black out.

 _Messi_ had been taken away with a gurney.

Cristiano rolled off, and the carriers almost fell with him, with the unexpected lack of weight to transport. 

“Cristiano! What are you doing?” One of the carriers addressed him, while the other was muttering some swears.

“I am ok,” Cristiano replied, struggling on his knees first and then cautiously getting to a standing position.

“You are not ok,” the paramedic stated, looking at him with big, blue eyes. “You just fainted in the middle of the pitch!”

“I said I am ok,” he growled. “I don’t need anything, just leave me alone!” 

The carrier backed up, scared by the sudden burst of rage, but someone else was grabbing Cristiano’s arms with a warm, steady hand.

Cristiano turned to find the worried face of Ramos looking at him. It was a very untypical expression for him. Ramos usually went from rage, to cheerfulness. His mood went from: I want to kill you to I am going to make you laugh out your lungs. Staying still, just looking at something without knowing how to react to it, that was not him. Cristiano did notice that.

“You are not ok, Cristiano,” Ramos said.

He was not ok, in fact. 

Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome, they said. You should go get therapy, they said.

No way, Cristiano said.

What he was supposed to say? Go to a perfect stranger and tell him how he had killed his nemesis? Messi was the sweetest guy on Earth. He was the best, in every sense, and Cristiano had been so envious that he had killed him. He had. Because there was no way that he couldn’t have seen what was happening. Of course, he saw the man with the knife coming. Of course, he had seen that as the opportunity of his life. Eliminate the obstacle to his grand path of glory, remaining clean.

The good guy is dead, all hail the bad guy!

Except, the bad guy is a relic, really. 

Broken, useless, what could Cristiano have done with his life?

He went back to his family. To the beauty of Madeira.

And there he realised that the link to his family was stronger than what he imagined. But the reality was too horrible to live, and dreams at night were even worse. Unconsciousness was bliss, and alcohol just helped. 

But even the bad guys have a heart, and Cristiano’s heart was breaking every time he saw the look on his mother’s face, when he was ravaged.

The bad guy was also a villain, so the only thing that Cristiano was able to do was flee and run away.

He decided to go to Porto. He was just sick of speaking a foreign language, struggling to find the right word, feeling the pressure to correct himself when realising that he had made a grammatical mistake.

He wanted to be in a city, where anonymity could be achieved with only a different haircut –in his case longer, ungelled curls- and a chin covered with stubble. 

He wanted to be close to the sea.

He wanted to be in a city where he hadn’t played football.

He didn’t want to play football, to watch football, or even to talk about football.

When he witnesses kids playing football in the streets, he has to hold back in order not to hit them.

Football doesn’t exist in Cristiano’s life, and it has never existed. 

If he believes in that strongly enough, he can imagine that somewhere in Barcelona, a little Argentine is doing magic with his feet right now. Every time he scores, he is celebrated by his teammates who literally adore him. Kissed by his girlfriend who loves him. He is happy. He is alive.

 

“Another,” Cristiano drawls, banging the empty glass over the bar.

“Now, you really have had enough. Time to sleep for you.”

“Who do you think you are,” he cringes, “my father? Well, I am telling you, if he were here he would give me another bottle.”

Cristiano rises from the chair. Admittedly, it takes some effort, as he is suddenly feeling vertigo. But Cristiano knows that he can be threatening even with only the presence of his physique. He may not be fully fit, but he is still a tall, big man, much taller than the man in front of him.

So big and tall, and still couldn’t do anything when he was really needed.

“I am the one who is not giving you any more alcohol. Believe me, it’s better for you to go home.”

“I am not… I…” He wants to reach for the man, but instead stumbles on the chair.  
“You can’t tell me what to do!”

“Relax, man.” The voice is close to Cristiano, next to him. A customer has intervened, attracted by the noise.

Cristiano looks at him and notices that there are other people, too. A little crowd has formed, and Cristiano feels several pairs of eyes fixating on him, in a mixture of threatening and pitying.

He evaluates the situation. Four men. Average physique. He still thinks he can do it. His muscle mass is still living on the fat of the land of his past. And yet, it doesn’t care, he realises. It’s not worth it.

Nothing really is worth it.

“Oh, just fuck off, I will find another pub.” 

He spins around, and the world around him follows, spinning even faster. Walking straight when everything around him is moving is not an easy task. Trying to be focused with all the crowd noise is even more difficult. 

Cristiano stumbles over a table, receiving more insults. Stumbles over a group of people, receiving a push. Finally, he finds the door. 

It’s already dark outside. Of course, it’s still raining.

The cold wind, and the thin rain beats Cristiano violently. He loses his balance a little, and although he tries to balance himself by pressing a hand to the close external wall of the pub, he eventually falls on his knees.

“Fuck,” he mutters, struggling to rise up again. 

When he lifts his head, he realises that he is being observed. A little, pale man is looking down at him, his dark eyes full of reproach.

Cristiano’s heart misses a beat. Or ten. 

“Did I really die for this?” Lionel Messi says.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you very much to Messifangirl for her work as beta-reader. If my fics are understandable is just because of her patience with me <3


End file.
